Birth & Death
by neverqueen
Summary: One of the happiest moments of Mary Grayson's life is one of the last moments she ever lives. [Reposted under the same name. We should have Mary & John Grayson character tags, damn it!]
_**Birth & Death**_

"Men, I do believe we're about to die," says Rick in his most serious tone of voice.

"Let us pray!" John cries. He grabs his older brother's left hand and bows his head in a tortured admixture of despair and regret.

Karla rolls her eyes, mutters, "Oh, please," and turns to her son. "Johnny, don't you ever turn out like your father, hear? Never."

"Trust me, Mom," Johnny replies with an equally sassy roll of _his_ eyes, "I got it."

Rick looks up from his supposed praying for only a second. "You're all rude. Get out of my house."

" _Can we just_ —" Mary Grayson loves her family. Really. She does. But sometimes they make her want to _commit murder_. "Can we just get back on topic please," she says with what she considers to be saint-like patience.

"I'd rather not," Rick offers half-jokingly, then withers under the glare of his wife. "Karla, she called us in here with the intent to _talk_. 'We need to _talk_ ,' she said. That's _dangerous_. A woman never actually means to talk when she says something like that. We are all going to _die_." He looks to his brother. "Hold me, John."

"I'm holdin' as tight as I can."

"Lord, give me Your strength," Karla prays with her chin tilted towards the ceiling, and when she does so, she actually means it. Karla is a devout Christian. Rick and John are devout clowns.

"Mama?"

Mary looks down to her right. Her little boy is gazing at her with those startlingly blue eyes of his—the very same eyes he inherited from her. He seems somewhat bemused, eight years old and already coming to the realization that his father and uncle are mostly full of it.

"What's goin on?"

 _Good question_ , Mary thinks. She smiles and wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. When he snuggles against her side, soaking up the affection, her heart swells in that certain way she hopes she never gets used to.

"Tell you what, Dickie," she says. "Since you've been so good, how about I tell _you_ my little secret and you can tell everybody else. Hm?"

Dick nods excitedly. "Yeah, yeah!" He climbs to his knees on the well-used, faded red cushions of the curved sofa in their living room. Practically hanging on his mother—she can t help but laugh at how he seems to think other people are jungle gyms just waiting to amuse him—he puts the shell of his tiny ear to her mouth and waits.

"I've been good," Johnny pipes up from the other end of the couch.

"Nuh-uh!" Dick protests, at the same moment John scoffs, "The hell you have," and Rick says, "Boy, you haven't been good since the day you were conceived."

The thirteen-year-old rolls his eyes again. "It's genetic."

"…Son, you wound me."

Shaking her head fondly (or at least semi-fondly), Mary caresses the nape of Dick's neck as she whispers her secret—the whole reason she called her family here in the first place—into his ear.

The reaction she receives is _exactly_ the one she d been hoping for.

"Really?!" he cries, jumping clear off the couch. "You are?!"

She nods, smiling.

Dick makes a wordless sound of joy, suddenly bouncing all over the place. Meanwhile, the rest of the Graysons are watching him in amazement—all except John, who has shifted his gaze to a content-looking Mary.

"Mare…? he asks. When she only shakes her head, he turns to his son. "Dickie…?"

"Mama's havin' a baby!" Dick crows. "Mama's havin' a baby!"

" _What_ …?"

He looks at her again, and this time, Mary nods.

The next thing she knows, John has her wrapped in his powerful arms, and he's swinging her back and forth and to and fro, almost crushing her in his enthusiastic fervor. The rest of the family is creating a ruckus in the background—poor Rick with a face like that of a child who's been abandoned by his parents in the middle of a crowded mall, and Karla reminding him, with a smile that completely ruins the biting effect she's going for, that these things _do_ happen sometimes ("Remember when it happened to _us_?"), and Johnny probably thinking that now the trailer is going to be even _more_ crowded than it already is (though secretly, he's a little excited, too)—but all she can hear is Dick's rallying cry—"Mama's havin' a baby!"—and John whispering in her ear, over and over and over again, _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

And she almost imagines the little miracle inside of her is celebrating, too.

 **oOo**

"I hope it's a girl," John says later that night as they lie in bed together.

"Oh?" Mary tilts her head at him coyly, a smile teasing her lips. "Do you, now?"

"I mean, even if it's not…" He embraces her and lays his head in the crook of her neck. She can feel his chest heave as he sighs, and she unconsciously mimics the action—it's been a long day, a long and wonderful day, and when she wakes up, it's going to begin all over again. "You know. I'd just really like to have a daughter this time around. See what it's like. I've heard girls are easier to raise than boys."

Mary snorts. "For a time, sure," she agrees amiably. "Then they hit their teens."

John tenses up. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and grins, waiting for it.

"I change my mind," he says, and she laughs with a sudden surge of emotion. Warm and gentle.

"If we do have a girl, what should we name her?" she asks.

"Oh, God," mutters John with a hint of sincerity, "the bun has barely even _started_ baking and you're already trying to name it?"

"Bun?"

"Don't ask. Anyway, ah…" John turns his face so that his nose is pressed against her throat. He inhales deeply, and she allows herself a secret grin, glad she decided to wear the jasmine perfume he loves so much. "How about…You think we oughta name her after Karla?"

"Karla hates her name, though," Mary points out. It's true. Not enough to change it, nor even enough to demand she be addressed as something else, but Karla has always disliked her name. She thinks it's too harsh. (Personally, Mary is in love with it. She thinks it's much more interesting than hers, at any rate.)

"True," John concedes, "but…"

There's a pause, and Mary knows he's thinking. While she waits for his response, she closes her eyes and tries to forge a connection with the baby growing in her belly. She imagines a strand, a glowing tether, emerging from the lovingly tangled web of her heart, winding its way through her rib cage, down into the depths of her very being, her soul, and twining itself around what will one day be her second child—boy or girl, blue-eyed or brown-, surely just as beautiful as Dick, just as smart, just as perfect.

 _Dickie_ , she thinks. Oh, he was so happy when he found out. What a relief…

She worried, for a while, upon discovering her pregnancy, that Dick would be upset—jealous or fearful or even angry at the notion of having a sibling, of no longer being the baby of the family—but that worry dissipated when she witnessed his excited reaction, saw the joy on his face and heard it in his voice. He can't wait to be a big brother. Mary has never been so glad for anything in her life.

"Well," says John, bringing Mary back to the present, "Karla may hate her first name, but I've never heard her say anything bad about her middle name. I don't see why she would—it's simple and pretty, it's got a nice ring to it, not to mention it would make a great sibling set with 'Richard'. What do you think? If the baby is a girl, let's name her 'Rose'."

Rose.

Mary says the name aloud, tasting it. John is right, she thinks—it is a nice name. And no doubt, it would make an excellent tribute to Karla. They could even surprise her with it, the very same way they surprised Rick when they decided to name their firstborn after him so many years ago. Mary can still recall his presence at her hospital bedside, mere hours after the delivery, and the look of shock and joy on his face as he was informed that the newest member of the Grayson clan would be called 'Richard'—with his permission, of course. (He gave it practically before she could finish her sentence. John accused him of being a "narcissistic bastard", and Rick's response was something along the lines of an agreement.)

Rose.

"Yes," Mary murmurs, tracing delicate patterns on her husband's bare shoulder. "Yes, I think we should name her 'Rose'."

John shifts a little, the blanket pooling around his hips. "And if it's a boy?"

Mary pauses. She reaches deep down inside herself for that thread. She imagines she can feel her baby's heartbeat flowing through it, an electrical impulse that keeps her own heart going strong. She imagines the ghost of her baby's hand finding that thread, gripping it with little fingers. She smiles.

"It's a girl," she says. "It's definitely a girl."

 **oOo**

"Are you sure you wanna go on tonight, Mare? You can sit this one out if you want—we've got a back-up routine ready, just in case."

Mary rolls her eyes, keeping her gaze fixed to her reflection. "I'm sure, John," she says firmly, adjusting the large white feather in her hair. "I'll be fine."

John doesn't look happy, but after a moment of silent deliberation, he caves in with a sigh. "Alright, Mare. Just be careful, alright?"

She turns her head left, then right. Satisfied with her appearance, she retreats from the mirror and links her arms around John's waist. She gets up on her toes to share a chaste, tender kiss with him. When she pulls away, she notices the concern lingering in his eyes and can't help but smile. "I'm an acrobat who doesn't use a net, John. I'm always careful."

He gives a breathy laugh and returns her smile. "Yeah, well… I'd sure hope so." Another kiss, this one a bit more passionate. He runs his fingers through her long strawberry-blonde ponytail. "I still can't believe it, Mare," he whispers. "We're having another baby. I can hardly even think."

"I know what you mean." Stroking his cheek, she says, "But we don't have to think. We just have to feel."

His eyes begin to close, and she leans up to meet him halfway. "You always say the most beautiful things," he murmurs through their third kiss. "You should've been a poet."

She hums against his mouth. "That wouldn't have been nearly as exciting as this," she says, and she doesn't know whether she's referring to the rush of flight or the rush of love.

John pulls away, brushing his parted lips against her cheek as he goes. His smile is so boyish. "True. Well"—he exhales with finality—"let's get going, then. It's showtime."

"Showtime," she agrees. "You go on ahead, John. I just want to finish up here for a few minutes. I'll meet you by the Big Top, okay?"

She waits until she hears the door open and close, then takes a deep breath and turns toward the mirror again. She looks herself over a bit absentmindedly. Her forest-green leotard leaves no room for doubt—a blind man would be able to see her bump. At fifteen weeks along, she s bigger around than she expected to be.

 _My little Rose might not be so little after all_ , she thinks. Then: _Or maybe she's not alone in there._

She holds her bump with both hands. Rubs up, and down. They're in the States tonight, in a city widely hailed as one of the most dangerous and terrifying places on Earth: Gotham. Like a twisted version of Wonderland, it sprawls across the East Coast, the rejected lovechild of New York City that one day took on a life and character of its own. Nearly thirty million people—thrill-seekers, vandals, and vagrants, corporate tycoons in suits and criminal tyrants in stripes—and hundreds of them are lined up to attend Haly's within the hour.

This is the city where Dick was born.

 **oOo**

She's standing nearly forty feet off the ground and she's never felt more alive. The Big Top is filled with a buzzing sort of silence, an anticipation that she's come to know well over the years. Standing to her right is Karla, Karla Rose, stunning in her red hair and green spandex as always. To her left is Dick, outwardly composed but subtly exuberant, his eyes locked on his cousin across the way, waiting for the other boy's call to jump, to fly.

She grins. It always amazes her how much she has changed in the past nine or so years. As a girl she was quiet, reserved; she barely even knew the meaning of the word "fun", so inundated she was with everyone's expectations of her. She never would have dreamed, that long almost-decade ago, that she would one day stand on a shadowy platform so high above the ground, with the fearful whispering of a crowd and the thundering of drums in her ears, and actually smile at the prospect of throwing herself to the wind and spitting in gravity's face. She never would have dreamed that she could actually fly.

Though she can barely make out his face at this distance, in this darkness immediately preceding an explosion of light, Mary feels her eyes meet those of John. She sends out a silent thank-you to him, the way she always does just before the performance begins—a thank-you for coaxing her out of her shell, for forcing her to challenge the limits she always placed on herself, and for continuing to do so in the present day. _Thank you._

Without looking down, she places a hand on top of Dick's head. She feels him pop up on his toes to cuddle her palm. _Thanks, Dickie._ She owes it to him just as much.

The drum roll resolves like a gunshot in the night; the lights chase away the shadows as the orchestra far below strikes up a rhythm that never fails to make her blood sing.

As she leaps into the air and loses herself in the miracle of flight, Mary feels what can only be a tiny hand or foot collide with her womb.

 _ **The End**_


End file.
